Half Moon Harbor

by Donna Kauffman

  The railing itself had been turned into art by the addition of a circular opening in the middle, which had been fitted with a vintage-style brass medallion the size of a dinner plate.

  Without thinking, she climbed a few steps to get a closer look at the piece, and realized that while the wrought iron was new, the medallion was not. The patina had turned it a deep sea green, and the brass was pockmarked and pitted from excessive exposure to salt water and weather. The engraved clipper ship, the same as on the painted emblem representing the Monaghan shipbuilding legacy, was no less majestic for the wear and tear. Was it some kind of logo, a stamp of sorts, that they’d put on their ships, perhaps? Or in them? She didn’t know anything about ships or what the historical traditions might have been, but the detail work in the medallion was intricate and beautiful. On closer examination, she noted that the flag flying from the center mast appeared to have the same family crest as the one outside, though it was almost impossible to tell for sure, given the degradation of the metal. It made sense, though, since it was exactly the same rendition in every other way. Again she was struck by the enormity of Brodie’s legacy. She couldn’t even fathom a history so rich and full of carefully documented detail.

  From her perch halfway up the twisting staircase, she turned to take in the space as a whole. Whoever had planned and executed it was a smart designer and a talented craftsman. It occurred to her that the craftsman could very well be her erstwhile host. Considering his trade, she imagined it might not be a big leap from building boats to rehabbing a small boathouse. She did another quick scan of the open space, wondering where he’d gone.

  She gave a short whistle for her dog. “Whomper? Where are you?” she called, keeping her voice low. Neither man nor beast was anywhere below her on the main level as it was completely open and easy to see into every corner. That meant—she cringed, imagining the little ruffian rolling and rubbing his fish-rot fur all over Brodie’s bed linens, then allowed a short, self-deprecating smile as she thought that would at least be a handy solution to her wanting to roll around in Brodie’s bed linens.

  She turned and took another step up the circular column, pausing to finally slip off her other heel, before climbing a few more. “Whomper,” she whispered. “If you’re up there causing more trouble, I’m going to leave you to explain yourself.”

  Nothing. No sounds of anything being destroyed or tangled with. It took a few more steps and another turn around the spiral before she heard a thrumming sound and realized it was coming from the bathroom. The shower was running. She also heard what sounded like . . . “Singing?” She rolled her eyes. “Of course he sings.” And beautifully, too, she thought, as his lovely baritone, rich and deep, rose over the sounds of the water as he sang about a bonny lass with a smile like sunshine.

  Her traitorous mind had no problem whatsoever imagining him naked in his shower, water cascading, hot and steamy, all over that too-sculpted-to-be-real body, white teeth flashing, dimples dimpling, as he let loose with the chorus. Filling those broad, wide palms of his with soap and rubbing them over those pecs, down those abs, and straight out along his . . . Dear Lord. Her grip on the iron rail tightened as her thighs went a bit wobbly, only to go rock stiff a moment later when his voice soared to the high notes . . . and a very distinctive howl rose up along with him.

  “Seriously?” She climbed up a few more steps until her chin was level with the loft floorboards. The entire area was open up to the pitched ceiling, with a small porthole window in the side wall, and a bigger circular window set in over the headboard of the wide sea of mattress that dominated the space. Two long rectangular sunroof panels had been installed in the longer side of the roof that slanted toward the water. Warm, dappled light, which she imagined would turn to a golden glow as the sun climbed higher into the sky, flowed in. A large, slowly turning ceiling fan hung from a long pole mounted to the apex of the roof, the blades cleverly made from boat paddles, kept the air in the upper part of the building from getting too still and heavy.

  Wide, deep drawers with heavy rope pull handles were built in under the bed. Similar drawers with brass handles had been built in along the base of the short side wall where the ceiling slanted steeply downward. Three wooden poles that looked a lot like boat masts in miniature, each about a few feet long, had been mounted with heavy brass fixtures straight out from where slanted roof met back wall, providing racks for apparel requiring hangers. A bit exposed for her taste, though she did take a moment to skim her gaze over the cotton shirts hanging on the top mast and the folded trousers on hangers that were racked on the pole two below it. All in all, it was a decidedly masculine space that did absolutely nothing to quiet her suddenly needy libido.

  She shifted to look to her left and saw that a triangular corner portion of the other end of the loft had been walled off and turned into what was clearly a bathroom. Complete with shower that apparently fit a man and a dog.

  She tried not to be charmed by the idea of Brodie and Whomper howling in unison as they scrubbed free of rotting fish remains, but it was damn near impossible. Grinning despite herself, she had turned to head back down the stairs when the water was abruptly shut off and an instant later the bathroom door was flung open.

  “On with you now, ye little heathen,” Brodie commanded. “Go find your ma.”

  A split second later, her freshly scrubbed ball of scruff shot out of the bathroom like a sodden bullet, slid to a stop not a foot from her floor-level face, and shook for all he was worth.

  “Augh!” she spluttered, unable in her present position to do anything but take the full frontal shower square in the face as she held on to the railing to keep from stumbling down the metal stairs. Spitting at the short strands of dog fur clinging to her cheeks and lips, she was trying to keep her balance on the stairs when the floorboards creaked right next to her—which was when she made mistake number two. She looked up at the man presently towering over her, wrapped in nothing more than a navy blue and white striped terrycloth towel, which, from her vantage point, didn’t really cover . . . anything.

  “For heaven’s sake,” she cried, squeezing her eyes shut, but far, far too late to block out confirmation that the genetic fairies hadn’t just been drunk off their asses when they’d created him. They’d apparently been high as well. Because . . . well, that kind of generosity in the face of all the other assets bestowed on him was just downright ridiculous.

  Unless, of course, I am the one who’d be benefitting from it. She squeezed her eyes more tightly, hoping to squeeze that thought right out of her head along with it.

  “There you are,” he said. “We’re through if you’d like a quick rinse, and at the risk of being rude, I’d encourage ye to take the offer.”

  She cracked one eye open in time to see him wrinkle his nose a bit as he shot Whomper a quick wink. She shifted her gaze to her dog, who sat at the top of the stairs, stubby tail wagging for all its worth, eyes shining in eternal glee at the grand adventure the day had turned out to be.

  “Speak for yourself,” she quietly informed her little beast. Adventure, yes, but grand wasn’t quite how she’d have defined it. “I, ah—” She turned away from the dog, then quickly looked down, over, anywhere but up at the man in the towel. Surely from the broad grin once again splitting his handsome face, he’d realized the show he was putting on. Inadvertent or not, that was exactly the kind of man she’d pegged him to be, so she had no reason to be so disappointed at the confirmation.

  She decided right then and there that following him inside had been a mistake, one that needed to be immediately rectified. He’d call whoever he needed to call and find out that she was indeed the owner of the boathouse, and they’d eventually come to some sort of détente. Or not.

  At the moment, exiting the building seemed mandatory. And she didn’t feel the least bit guilty over taking the coward’s way out and avoiding further confrontation. “I can clean up where I’m staying. I’ll, uh, just get the two of us out of your, um—”
>
  She really shouldn’t be stuttering and stammering. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen man parts before, although perhaps none so, generously—um, proportioned. And certainly not from her current vantage point. Exactly. Jeez, just get on with it already. “Contact the county offices and they can go over everything. I assure you my paperwork is all in order and, if necessary, we can always—”

  “Talk right here, right now,” he finished for her. “As you were there, and you’ve got the papers, you can go over them with me. Then we’ll call whoever we must and get this whole thing put to rights.”

  “There’s no rights to put things into,” she said, then grimaced at the twisted wording. “What I mean is, there’s nothing that needs fixing. I was merely saying that if you need further proof, or you want to find out why they handled things the way they did, that’s the direction to take. You really don’t need me for that, and it’s possible you’ll be thankful I’m not there.”

  “Meaning?”

  She might have glanced up. Again. She really had to stop that. And he really had to move. Or she did. To that end, she turned on the stairs, keeping a death grip on the twisted iron railing as she wasn’t entirely certain her knees wouldn’t betray her sudden, overly avid interest in his genetic, um . . . prowess.

  “Meaning you didn’t look too happy to find out that neither Sue Clemmons nor Cami saw fit to let you know what was going on with the property. Property you clearly thought was under your control. So maybe it’s best if you handle that privately, that’s all. It’s your personal business, not mine.”

  “Cami Weathersby?”

  Grace paused and turned back, relieved to see he’d moved closer to the railing, which pressed the towel against his legs, and formed a merciful barrier between her gaze and his—seriously, can’t you think about anything other than that? “Uh, yes, Cami Weathersby. Why? Do you know her?”

  His smile faded and his expression darkened in a way it hadn’t before. She was surprised by how much it changed him. She’d already imagined he woke up smiling, then just went about being charming perfection the rest of the day, leaving a long line of lusting, desirous women in his wake.

  “Aye, indeed I do.” The darker edge, she realized, was anger. He’d been shocked before, insulted, hurt even, then annoyed and dismissive. But if she wasn’t mistaken, he was well and truly pissed.

  Frowning, she asked, “Is there something about her I should know?”

  “No, but perhaps ye’ve a point and we should meet at a later time.”

  For the first time, a trickle of unease slid down her spine. “Why is that?”

  “You were right about it being personal business. I need to make a few calls.”

  The trickle became a steady stream. She had no idea what Brodie might be able to accomplish with a few phone calls and she didn’t want to find out. The main problem with being the newest addition to the Blueberry Cove citizen roster was that she had no real contacts beyond those who had helped her achieve the first step in her dream. Worse, she had no knowledge of anyone’s background or interpersonal history, not even the few she’d dealt with personally.

  Grace gave in. “You know, on second thought, I can barely stand the smell of myself, and I don’t need to stink up my car. Why don’t I take you up on that offer to rinse off, and then we can head to the county offices together.” There was the little matter of her needing to get a change of clothes in there somewhere, but one step at a time.

  He looked like he was going to nix the idea and go his own way. He definitely wanted to, she could tell, but hospitality—or her stench—won out. “Help yourself to the shower. I left a pair of track pants, a tee, and a jumper in there for you. You’ll likely—”

  “Jumper?”

  “Oh, erm, a sweater, yes.”

  “Ah. And track pants. Like a sweat suit, then.”

  “Aye. They’ll swim on you to be certain, but you needed something to wear. I put a large plastic dustbin liner in there to put your smelly things in.”

  “Thank you,” she said, giving herself an internal eye roll as she thought how she’d been drooling over his sea of a bed and imagining the two of them rolling in those white linen sheets . . . all while he’d been thinking of her as a “smelly thing.” Which she was. Yeah, it’s past the time to get your head back where it needs to be. On business. And business only.

  She turned and climbed up the stairs again, wincing as she grabbed on to the railing with her splintered palm. “I won’t be but a few minutes. Then we can make the calls—”

  “Here, let’s have another look,” he said, taking her good hand before she could dodge the assist and helping her step up onto the loft floor.

  “It’s okay,” she said, damning the hint of breathlessness in her voice. It didn’t help that not only was he wearing even less than the last time he’d touched her, but he was framed by the impossibly wide expanse of bed behind him. Made even more inviting by the rumpled pile of old, faded quilts and oversized pillows. Eyes on the splinters, not on the bed. Or the towel. And for God’s sake, stop thinking about what’s under it.

  “Come on into the bathroom with me. I’ve got tweezers there.” At her arched eyebrow, he grinned and it so effortlessly transformed him from brooding Irishman back into irrepressible charmer, she couldn’t help but be a bit transfixed by the glow of it. He wiggled his dark eyebrows. “I don’t tweeze me brows if that’s what yer thinkin’. When you live on the docks, splinters are a part of life.”

  “I bet,” she managed, trying to ignore how dry her throat was. And how it was pretty much the only dry part she had left. She slid her hand free. Not touching was a good idea. Getting some distance was even better. “I’ll find them. Just wait here and I’ll be out fast.” She didn’t want him phoning anyone while she was cleaning up, but she couldn’t stand the smell of herself another second. That he was all clean and soapy-smelling, and it appeared he’d shaved while he was in there, only made her feel more gross and uncomfortable.

  “Medicine cabinet, top shelf for the tweezers, bottom shelf for the alcohol. It’ll go faster if you allow me.” He nodded to her injured left hand. “You’re left-handed.”

  “How did you—”

  “I tend to notice details. It’s part of my craft.”

  Disconcerted that he’d been paying that close attention, she stammered, “Right. Shipbuilding. Boats by hand. I saw the sign when I came in.”

  “And yet you didn’t notice it when you were off buying up a piece of my property.”

  “I—the first thing I looked at was the boathouse at the other end. It sits apart a little and has its”—she broke off, not wanting to get into the part where she also owned one of his piers—“other selling points. The big boathouse in the middle blocked yours from view, so I didn’t see it, or that it had obviously been renovated.” She thought back, wondering how she could have missed it, and realized that Cami might have steered her specifically to keep her view of Brodie’s place blocked. But she wasn’t entirely sure. She waved a quick hand. “What you’ve done is amazing. And the sign outside—that’s impressive artwork. Yours?”

  He shook his head. “Not part of my skill set. ’Twas a local, a new local.” His gaze darted to the open area below, and she caught a brief, wistful look that she’d have missed if she hadn’t been staring at him. Like a besotted idiot.

  “Same local who did the renovation?”

  He blinked, looked back to her, and nodded once, the wistful moment gone, but her curiosity over who had engendered that reaction from him lingered. She wondered if the recipient knew of his interest. Wistful meant unfulfilled, or no longer fulfilling. Hmmm . . . “What’s her name?”

  “Alex MacFarland,” he said almost absently, then instantly sharpened up, and she knew he regretted giving her the information.

  Why, she wasn’t entirely sure. Presumably because he didn’t want to give her any help with her renovation, but it could be more than that. In fact, she’d bet it was.

 
“How did you know it was—”

  “A woman?” she finished for him. Because I’m not blind. And because I wish a man would look all wistful like that when he thought about me. “Good guess.” She glanced down at the lower level. “If she designed this, she’s more than a little talented. Multifaceted.”

  “She restores lighthouses. By trade. Comes from a long line who’ve done the same. So she’s used to thinking outside the box.”

  A woman with her own proud heritage. Figures. He’d understand and appreciate that quality more than most, so of course he’d been drawn to it. That he’d been so quick to mention it said as much. She nodded, and, glancing back at him, noticed that while his praise was sincere, his expression was carefully professional now. She wouldn’t have thought he’d have that kind of cool reserve in him. She’d have bet he tossed his charm around so effortlessly and often that a professional façade would be an unnecessary addition to his arsenal. Although in his line of work, he likely dealt mostly with men. Men who probably secretly wished they were him, while not-so-secretly making sure they kept their women away from him. And not necessarily because they distrusted Brodie.

  “Have you started any projects yet? Boats, I mean?” she asked, changing topics, though she doubted she’d forget that wistful look anytime soon. Perversely, discovering his heart had even come close to being compromised, when she’d have bet her most challenging estate probate that he was a woman-of-the-moment, love-’em-and-leave-’emsighing kind of guy, only served to make her tingly parts that much more, well . . . tingly. Danger, danger, Grace Maddox.